Convergence
by poetzproblem
Summary: All the missed opportunities and diverging paths have still somehow led them here, and where they'll end up is anyone's guess. Follow-up to Acceptance/Remembrance. Faberry Week, Day One: Reunion.
1. A Matter Of Choice

**Author's Note:** Written for the Faberry Week, Day 1 - _Reunion_. The long awaited follow-up to the _Acceptance/Remembrance _oneshots. I've broken this into two parts for ease of reading.

I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Eternal thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being the most awesome beta.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Glee_ or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

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**Convergence**

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_Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice.  
__It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.  
__~William Jennings Bryan_

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**Part I: A Matter of Choice**

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The first time she sees Rachel Berry (not Hudson) after high school, Quinn Fabray is not quite twenty-eight years old, wearing a brown wig and square-rimmed eye-glasses, and gazing nervously at the stage of the Westside Theatre. It's technically spring, but the temperature outside hasn't quite gotten the memo yet, and the New York weather feels particularly frosty to her thinned-out California blood. Her body is nearly as hidden as her face under a few extra layers of clothing, although she thinks that she might regret that since the theater has gotten progressively stuffier as it's filled with people.

She surreptitiously glances around to make sure that she hasn't been recognized, and she's both relieved and a little annoyed that no one sees past the surface to the person underneath the disguise. For the moment, she's only Lucy. Academy Award winning-actress Quinn Fabray is nothing more than an airbrushed face in the magazines that would never be caught alone wearing comfortable, non-designer jeans and an oversized sweater in a small Off-Broadway theater that houses a little known show. Satisfied that her anonymity is intact, she relaxes in increments, sitting back against her seat with eyes once against fastened to the stage.

The show hasn't started yet, but it's about to. She'd missed the opening night thanks to obligations that she couldn't get out of—her agent is still pissed at her for the fit she'd thrown about it and the dozen appearances that she'd made him cancel—but it's been _years _since she last heard Rachel Berry's voice, and she couldn't wait one moment longer. Quinn's original plan had been to find a project in New York, get settled in the city, and then make a few discrete inquiries to the whereabouts of Rachel Berry so that she could _accidentally_ run into her somewhere, but when Santana (who'd heard from Mercedes who'd heard from Kurt) had casually mentioned that Rachel had gotten a role Off-Broadway, Quinn had immediately regrouped. There are some early talks in the works about a potential project, but Quinn wasn't about to delay her move to New York until she had a signed contract and miss seeing Rachel on a stage.

She glances at the playbill in her hand, smiling softly as her eyes trace over the grainy black and white photo of Rachel before picking out words like _Off-Broadway debut_ and _rare vocal talent_. Quinn willfully forgets that Rachel should have made her _Broadway_ debut years ago and that her name and image should be on one of those billboards in Times Square. Her career might be a few years behind schedule, but there's no doubt in Quinn's mind that Rachel Berry is going to be a star.

She's already on her way. She's gotten nothing but positive reviews in the two weeks since _Reunion_ has opened, and there was even one particularly glowing blurb revealing how Rachel had stepped into her current role just a week before opening night when the female lead had unexpectedly quit the show. That's the Rachel Berry that Quinn had known in high school—the girl who could nail an unrehearsed performance on the fly and bring an audience to its feet.

A hush falls over the theater as the curtain rises on a sparse set, and Quinn holds her breath as she waits to discover the world that will unfold upon the stage. It takes thirteen minutes for Rachel to appear, and from that moment forward, Quinn is lost. She's sixteen again, sitting on the risers in the choir room in awe of a powerful voice and bright, shining presence. The show itself is funny and sassy and occasionally heartbreaking, and the irony of it being centered on a group of friends who haven't seen one another in years certainly isn't lost on Quinn. It's almost too easy to imagine herself into the ensemble, sharing scenes with Rachel that aren't really scenes at all. She's the pining childhood friend, the hopeful ex-lover, and the bitchy rival all rolled into one.

As the final act begins to wind down into a series of unsatisfying resolutions, Quinn nervously taps the instep of her boot against the oversized bag on the floor between her feet, careful of the small bouquet of pink roses that she'd strategically propped up against it. She's not completely certain what the protocol is for congratulatory flowers, but roses seemed like a safe bet and pink seemed like a safe color. She just wants a chance to know Rachel again—to thank her in person for everything that she'd unknowingly done to inspire her.

When the spotlight fades on the cast, the audience around her erupts in applause. The man next to her jumps up from his seat, applauding loudly and adding in a wolf whistle for good measure. Quinn smiles as she rises, adding her own applause to the hum of appreciation. A warm rush of pride swells in her heart because Rachel was every bit as amazing as Quinn remembers.

The curtain opens again as the small orchestra continues to play and, one by one, the cast jogs out on stage. Rachel isn't the last one out—the two male leads get that honor—but she does get the loudest round of applause, and her male costars drag her forward after they take their own bows and dramatically bestow kisses on the backs of her hands. Quinn laughs and claps harder.

The curtain closes for the final time, and the house lights come up. Quinn waits until the rows around her clear before gingerly collecting her bag and the flowers. She didn't want to be noticed in the audience, but she certainly isn't above using her fame to get backstage, so she seeks out an usher and asks about seeing Rachel Berry. He looks her over warily and tells her to go wait outside the stage door like everyone else. Quinn huffs and asks to see the stage manager instead. The usher rolls his eyes and refuses. She scowls at him and spins on her heel to storm away before realizing that she's still wearing the glasses and wig, and she shakes her head at her own forgetfulness. She turns her back to the few dozen people still lingering in the auditorium and discreetly pulls off her wig, fluffing her blonde hair as best as she can before she finds another usher, a young woman who looks to still be in her teens. Quinn drags the glasses down her nose and neatly folds them, tucking them into her bag as she approaches the girl with a charming smile—her Hollywood smile. The moment the girl sees Quinn, her eyes widen in recognition.

"Oh my gosh!" she squeaks excitedly. "You…y-you're Quinn Fabray!"

Quinn grimaces slightly and her head whips around, checking to see if anyone is paying attention before she turns back to the woman with another affected smile. "Yes. And I very much enjoyed the show," she says, leaning closer and coating her voice in the honeyed tones that always seem to get her exactly what she wants. "Do you think there's any way that I could possibly go backstage and meet the cast? I'd love to tell them in person how phenomenal they were."

"Oh…um…y-yeah?" the woman stammers. "Th-that shouldn't be a problem. You can…ah…you can follow me, M-Ms. Fabray."

Quinn suppresses the urge to roll her eyes at the star-struck expression etched on the woman's face. She's seen that look so many times, and it never fails to amuse her. If they only knew who she used to be—any of the whos that she used to be—they'd probably turn away in disgust.

She dutifully follows the woman out a side door and into a narrow hallway. She can feel several sets of eyes on her, and she sighs, knowing that she'll probably have to go through the motions of meeting the cast and crew with a polite smile and feigned interest once she's actually backstage. The woman stops her short of their destination with an apology and a nervous smile, explaining that she still needs to clear Quinn's presence with the stage manager. Quinn nods, absently tracing the patterns on the wall with her eyes while she runs her fingers through her hair again. She can only imagine how flat and tangled it must be from the wig. She probably should have stopped in the ladies' room first and freshened up. Why didn't she think to do that? She gives up playing with her hair to one-handedly dig through her purse, tilting her head to peer inside for her compact while she juggles the bouquet in her other hand.

"Ms. Fabray."

Quinn jumps at the unexpected boom of a masculine voice, and her eyes jerk up to see a scruffy-looking man with a wide smile and a slightly less obvious version of the familiar star-struck expression. Quinn abandons her quest for the compact and resigns herself to looking less than perfect.

"It's such a pleasure to meet you. I'm a huge fan," he gushes.

She flashes the appropriate smile. "Thank you. It's always nice to meet a fan," she trails off with a quirk of her eyebrow.

"Oh, Justin," he supplies with a grin. "Justin McIlnay."

"You're the stage manager?" Quinn asks distractedly as she glances over his shoulder and sees even more people beginning to congregate around her general vicinity. She really just wants this guy to take her to Rachel.

He frowns. "I wrote the show."

Quinn feels her cheeks flame. She can hardly admit that she'd barely skimmed the program for everything that wasn't related to Rachel. She clears her throat and mutters a weak apology before falling back on her Hollywood smile again. "It was wonderful. You're very talented," she tells him honestly.

His face lights up with pride, and he begins to ramble about his inspiration and how long it took to get a backer, and Quinn smiles politely and tunes him out, scanning the immediate area for any sign of Rachel. This was probably a terrible idea. Why didn't she think this through better? She's going to have to play the gracious movie star to a bunch of strangers and probably sign autographs and pose for pictures and listen to a sales pitch for turning the musical (as wonderful as it was) into a movie while Rachel is probably quietly sneaking out of the theater. And her hair is a mess and she's wearing the most unflattering outfit ever!

"But you probably want to see Rachel now, don't you?" Justin asks with a knowing smile, abruptly pulling Quinn's attention back to him. "I can't believe she didn't tell me you were coming. She's such a sneaky little thing," he says with a shake of his head. "All this time, she's sworn up and down that the two of you lost touch after high school, but…well," he hedges, dropping his voice, "you don't just thank someone in all your acceptance speeches for no reason, now do you?" Quinn feels the unpleasant churn of nausea in her belly as she eyes the man suspiciously, but he doesn't seem to notice her discomfort. "Now that I know what that woman is capable of doing on a stage, it completely makes sense that the two of you would be friends."

Quinn swallows thickly and forces a smile. She and Rachel aren't friends. They've never been friends—not really—and her reasons for thanking Rachel are so complicated and convoluted that she's not even certain that _she_ can properly explain them. She stifles the urge to laugh hysterically and merely nods. She wants to see Rachel. That's all that really matters right now.

Justin leads her further into the hidden recesses of the theater. She hears him making promises on her behalf—"let's allow Ms. Fabray to say hello to Rachel first," he says—and she wishes she'd thought to bring her manager or her personal assistant or even David to get her through this unscathed. David is back in Los Angeles, and she'd given her assistant the week off, and her manager (on instruction from her agent) had advised her not to do this at all, but none of that matters, because Justin is knocking on a generic dressing room door and swinging it open before anyone can object.

The room is kind of small and overcrowded. It's not private at all, merely a collection of small vanities that are obviously shared by the cast, but there's no one else inside at the moment except for…

"Rachel," she whispers, nearly soundless.

"Rachel, darling, there's someone here to say hello," Justin announces with a musical lilt before winking at Quinn.

Rachel spins on her chair, a gentle smile on her face and still flushed from the rush of the performance—or possibly scrubbing off her stage makeup—but the smile kind of freezes when her eyes land on Quinn before it slips away in steady increments.

"Quinn?"

"I'll leave you two to catch up," Justin says as he backs out of the room, blissfully unaware of the tension that's suddenly thick in the air.

Quinn licks her lips as she gazes at Rachel Berry, up close and in person, for the first time in almost ten years. Her features are so achingly familiar, but so very different in ways that run far deeper than the scattering of a few extra lines around her eyes. The final traces of the awkward teenager that Quinn had once known are completely gone now and in her place is a gorgeous woman.

"Hi, Rachel," she finally manages in a wispy voice, lifting her free hand in a moronic little wave. She drops it quickly when Rachel's eyebrows furrow, and Quinn immediately chastises herself for acting like a lost little girl. "Um…these are for you," she says with a faint grin, lifting the bouquet and weakly holding it out toward Rachel who doesn't make any move to accept it.

Quinn clears her throat and steps forward, carefully laying the roses down on the counter. Her arm accidentally brushes Rachel's shoulder, sending an unexpected shiver racing through her. Rachel inhales sharply. "What are you doing here?" she asks harshly, erasing the smile from Quinn's lips.

"I heard about the show through the grapevine," Quinn explains. "I happened to be in New York," an utter evasion of the truth, "and couldn't very well pass up the opportunity to see Rachel Berry on a Broadway stage."

"_Off _Broadway," Rachel mutters sullenly.

Quinn ignores the correction, offering another tentative smile. "The show was," she begins, feeling her smile transform into its most sincere version—a rarity these days. "_You_ were amazing."

Something soft and vulnerable plays in Rachel's eyes, and Quinn feels her smile bloom wider. They're simultaneously Quinn and Rachel from Lima, Ohio, who were kind-of friends, and Oscar-winner Quinn Fabray and talk-of-Broadway Rachel Berry, but every version of them is sharing a moment. It makes her bolder. It makes her forget herself and say, "I never thought I'd have to wait this long to see you here."

In an instant, the moment disappears and Rachel's eyes flash and narrow on Quinn. "I bet you're just loving this, aren't you?" Quinn's smile disappears, and she shakes her head, uncertain what Rachel means until she hears Rachel hiss, "Seeing me like this." Rachel abruptly rises from her chair and waves her hands around the meager dressing room. "Barely getting my career off the ground at twenty-six after all the times I swore I'd be a _star_," she says self-derisively. "God, you must have had some really good laughs about that over the years."

Quinn gapes at her, stunned. Is that really what she thinks? "No," she attempts to protest, but the denial comes out as nothing more than a whisper. "You're wrong."

"Oh, I know," Rachel agrees sharply. "I was wrong, and you—perfect, beautiful Quinn Fabray—were right all along. You told me this would happen, but I didn't listen to you." Her voice breaks, and her eyes shine tellingly, but she doesn't break down. She only lifts her chin, glaring at Quinn. "And now you've come to gloat in person."

The accusation hurts. She hadn't known what to expect from this meeting, but for some reason, she'd hadn't imagined _this_. Quinn tightens her hand around the strap of her purse and takes a breath to calm herself. "I would never do that," she says evenly.

"But you did! You've been doing it for years," Rachel growls, throwing her hands out in exasperation, "rubbing my nose in my failures on national television and mocking me with every award that you've won."

Quinn gasps, staggering back a step. "Is...is that what you think I was doing?"

"What else?"

"Thanking you!" she shouts, losing the battle to stay calm. "I was thanking you, Rachel!"

"For what?" Rachel asks incredulously. "Taking Finn away from you and marrying him so you couldn't? For being stuck in Lima, giving up my dreams, while you batted your eyelashes at some Hollywood producer and...and just fell into the life that I was supposed to have? I'm sorry if I don't want your gratitude for that."

It's not the first time that Quinn has heard something like that. She's read the gossip rags. She knows that for every fan that gushes over her, there's someone who thinks that she's a talentless hack—that she only made it on her looks or on her back and that she hasn't had to put in a single day of hard work for anything. She just never thought she'd hear it from _Rachel_.

Rachel, who is obviously as bitter and resentful of the choices that she's made as she is of Quinn's success.

"Did you even listen to anything I said in those speeches?" Quinn finally asks, her voice a little rough.

Rachel's eyes dart away, and she drags her teeth over her lip before she takes a breath and regroups. "Well, obviously you made it sound good for the cameras," she mutters, looking everywhere but at Quinn. "That's what you're paid to do after all." She stops fidgeting and meets Quinn's gaze head on when she says, "But your last speech made your true intentions all too clear."

Quinn stares at Rachel, shaking her head as she shrugs off her purse and tosses it onto the counter. "God, you're still just as frustrating as ever!" She drags her fingers through her hair, no longer caring how it looks. "And just as egocentric."

"_I'm_ egocentric?" Rachel squeaks in protest, crossing her arms and scowling in a perfect recreation of her younger self.

Quinn ignores her, stalking forward and invading Rachel's space. She gets a perverse pleasure watching those brown eyes widen in remembrance of past confrontations. "Newsflash, Rachel. I'm an Academy Award-winning actress," Quinn reminds her harshly. "My life does not revolve around you." _Much._ "I haven't spent the last nine years plotting ways to say 'I told you so.'" _Just ways to see you again_. "And even if I had, I sure as hell wouldn't waste my breath publicly acknowledging you in a speech when I could be using that time to thank the people who actually matter to me!"

Maybe there was a time when Quinn might have been that vindictive, though it's more likely that she'd have forgotten Rachel Berry entirely, but she hasn't been that person in a very long time. She feels a little sick discovering how Rachel sees her now. Clearly, she's regarded Rachel more highly than Rachel has regarded her. She can feel the sting of bitter tears, and she tries to blink them away.

Rachel inhales shakily. "Then why did you?" she finally asks in a weak voice.

Quinn can see the hurt in her eyes, colored with a healthy dose of confusion. She hates how easily they slipped back into their worst habits. "I don't know, Rachel! Maybe because it felt like the right thing to do at the time. Or maybe I'm actually grateful to you for helping me realize that I could make it out of Lima."

_Or maybe I just care too much about you and what you think of me, even after all these years._

"I don't understand how that's even possible," Rachel admits softly. "We were barely even friends."

Quinn sighs and leans her hip against the counter, placing a palm down on the surface. Her fingers brush against petals of a rose from the bouquet, and she absently strokes it as she studies Rachel's face, picking out the mix of emotions at war there. She chews on the corner of her lip as she gathers her thoughts. "You...you told me that I was more than a pretty face," she starts quietly, lost in her memories. "That I was better than I knew. You offered me your friendship, even when I didn't want it. You saved me in so many little ways," Quinn admits quietly, thinking of how close she'd come to possibly ruining her daughter's life, along with Shelby's and her own. "Words and gestures that, by themselves, seemed so insignificant, but together," she laughs a little, shaking her head, "they really meant something to me, Rachel." She levels her gaze on the other woman, letting a soft smile curve her lips. "Some people just…stay with you."

Rachel releases a shuddery breath and ducks her head, wiping at a few stray tears that have escaped over her cheeks. An uncomfortable silence fills the room, and Quinn watches Rachel shift her weight from foot to foot while she looks everywhere but at Quinn. She sighs in disappointment, letting go of the foolish idea that maybe she's one of the people that stayed with Rachel in some kind of positive way.

Quinn is just about to wish her luck with her career and say goodbye when Rachel quietly confesses, "I've seen all of your films."

She can't help the little flutter of pleasure that takes wing in her stomach. She's never pretended that vanity isn't one of her biggest vices, and knowing that Rachel has followed her career eases some of the sting from her earlier words. "_All _of them?" Quinn verifies with an arched eyebrow. Her first two films hadn't exactly been high art.

Rachel grins a little, finally meeting Quinn's eyes again. "Yeah. And I," she glances away, looking embarrassed, "I've watched every episode of _Bethany Hall_." She chuckles at her own admission, blushing a little. "You play a very convincing antagonist."

Quinn laughs. "So I've been told."

Rachel's gaze connects with a spot over Quinn's shoulder, and her lips turn down into a thoughtful frown. "I can never decide if I resent you for your success," she says, pausing to shake her head as her eyes flutter closed, "or I'm proud to have known you. Sometimes, I think it might be both."

Quinn sags back against the counter, nodding slowly. She supposes the resentment is a natural human reaction. She can't deny that she would have felt the same way had the situations been reversed. Hell, she _had_ resented Rachel back in high school, just knowing that her talent and ambition would get her anything she chose to pursue while Quinn hadn't dared to dream that she could be anything but a pretty former cheerleader with no future beyond a loveless marriage and a job that she'd hate.

"How do you feel about knowing me now?" Rachel looks at her with furrowed brows, and Quinn offers a tentative smile. "I'm going to be in New York for awhile. I was hoping we could…catch up. Maybe try the whole friendship thing again."

Rachel purses her lips as she gives Quinn one of those looks—the kind that always used to (and still does) make Quinn feel like Rachel is seeing straight through her. "How long are you going to be in the city?"

Quinn catches the corner of her lip between her teeth and shrugs. "I'm not really sure yet. It depends on," _you_, "how some current negotiations work out."

An odd little hum slips past Rachel's lips. "There are some rumors that you're planning to do a play next. That wouldn't happen to be true, would it?"

"It's a possibility," Quinn admits carefully.

Rachel's eyes narrow again, and she points a finger at Quinn. "I knew it! You _are_ attempting to win the coveted Emmy-Grammy-Oscar-Tony combination!"

"It's not about the awards, Rachel," Quinn defends. "And even if it was, we both know that only one person in this room is capable of winning a Grammy, and it isn't me."

Rachel's finger curls back into her palm, and she drops her hand limply to her side. She runs her tongue over her lips, and Quinn has to suppress a groan as her eyes follow the motion. "Well, that is true," Rachel concedes with a sheepish grin. "Not that your voice isn't lovely."

Quinn waits for the familiar disclaimer about her being occasionally sharp or having a tremulous alto, and when it doesn't happen, she feels that little flutter of pleasure again. "Yours is better," she says, meaning it.

Rachel's smile lights up the room. "Obviously. I've had years of training to enhance my natural talent, after all."

Quinn laughs. "And there's the Rachel Berry I know and love."

She freezes when she realizes what she's said, inhaling sharply as she studies Rachel's face for any sign of awareness. Rachel's smile looks to have grown a little soft around the edges, and her cheeks seem a little pinker than they were, but she doesn't question Quinn's choice of phrase. Rachel drops her gaze to the floor. "I suppose if I want to make it into your next acceptance speech, I should take you up on that offer of friendship."

Quinn holds her breath for a moment before exhaling shakily. "I have a feeling you'll be the one winning the next award, Rachel. You really were wonderful out on that stage."

Rachel lifts her eyes, filled with the glittering stars that Quinn remembers so well from when they were teenagers, and her lips curve into the most beautiful smile. "If you keep saying things like that, Quinn Fabray, I'll have to write _you_ into _my_ speech."

Quinn feels her heart race, and she absently presses a palm there. If she'd had any doubt about how easily she could fall for this woman all over again, it's just been obliterated. She's probably only setting herself up for heartache again, but she can't resist the temptation. It's a chance she'd never thought she'd have. "Or…you could thank me by letting me buy you dinner," she offers, holding her breath again.

Rachel's eyebrows furrow adorably. "I think you have that a little backwards."

"No. I have it exactly right," Quinn insists.

Rachel stares at her for a long moment before she murmurs a hesitant, "Okay."

Quinn bites into her lip to keep from smiling too widely. It's only dinner—a tentative beginning—but it's one step closer to where she wants to be. All the missed opportunities and diverging paths have still somehow led them here, and where they'll end up is anyone's guess, but maybe—just maybe—they can walk down this road together and end up somewhere wonderful. For the first time in a long time, Quinn is looking forward to the journey.


	2. A Thing To Be Achieved

**Part II: A Thing To Be Achieved**

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The second time she attends an awards ceremony, Rachel Berry is twenty-seven. She knows that she'll always remember the moment exactly, walking the red carpet outside of Radio City Music Hall. It's early June, but the temperature is already spiking, and between the weather, the lighting on the carpet, and the flashbulbs from the cameras, she feels like she's baking in her ivory Armani—and God, she's waited so long to wear _anything _Armani. No one will ever hear her complain, not when she's finally (_finally) _made it on Broadway.

She'd honestly believed that she'd lost her chance. All of those big dreams of stardom that she had as a little girl had steadily shrunk and been leached of their vivid color for every year that she remained in Ohio. She had to settle for sitting on a sofa next to Finn and staring at the television between loads of laundry until the only dreams she had left were the ones that plagued her restless sleep, fueled by regrets and might-have-beens. Her marriage was slowly poisoned from the inside out, and for that, she'll never completely forgive herself.

Divorcing Finn and moving to New York didn't magically make everything better, but it did give her the chance to rediscover the girl who had never apologized for her ambition. She smothered her for so long, but it didn't take very much to bring her back, just a little part in an Off-Broadway show and a leading lady storming out a week prior to their opening night. Rachel didn't miss a beat, immediately petitioning Justin and Ben, their director, for the chance to replace her permanently. Her twelve measly lines left her ample time to memorize the entire book and score—she could have seamlessly slipped into any of the roles, male or female—and she proved it to Justin with a flawless audition.

_Reunion_ steadily gained popularity Off-Broadway, turning a tidy profit and attracting attention for two months before it closed, only to reopen three months later with a brand new investor and a slightly more elaborate staging at the Gershwin Theatre. Rachel made her Broadway debut along with her show, and now, here she is, nominated for her first ever Tony.

She already has a Drama Desk, but the award had been for Outstanding Ensemble, and she shares it with every member of her cast. That ceremony had been exciting for the fact that she was _there, _surrounded by peers and idols as their show and its performances had been recognized for being something special, but it had been _nothing_ like _this_—big and splashy and televised across the nation. If (when) she wins tonight, she'll give a revised variation of the speech that she's had memorized since she was three. She's trying to prepare herself for disappointment. She's up against four very talented women, after all, even if she does personally think that at least three of them are extremely overrated and won't be much competition at all. Rachel really, really wants to win that Tony.

It's the icing on top of the cake, but it's not the cake. She'd spent too many years longing for the simple joy of performing on stage and hearing the applause to take a single moment for granted now—award or no award. The first time she'd walked out of the theater to see a crowd gathered, shouting her name and asking for autographs and photos, she'd been moved to tears. The feeling never fades—that beautiful fullness in her chest when she sees the sparkle of wonder in the eyes of a fan. She loves every moment of it.

And she especially loves _this_ moment. It doesn't even matter that the red carpet coverage isn't being carried by any major networks, or that E! News sent their D-Team, or that only the Broadway blogs and magazines really care about getting a good interview—barely two minutes, of which only thirty seconds might make the cut. None of that stops Rachel from posing for pictures, smiling big for the cameras, and stopping at every microphone that she can find so she can bask in her first big taste of celebrity.

Her eyes are up, scanning the crowd for the next interview after finishing a meaningless chat about her dress with Alisha Quarles. She knows it won't make it to air with theater royalty like Neil Patrick Harris, Mandy Patinkin, and (oh, sweet Barbra!) Bernadette Peters in attendance. There are even a few movie stars like Anna Kendrick, Tom Hanks, and—the cacophony of activity all around her stills, fading away to a distant whisper, as her gaze catches and holds on a familiar face just a few feet away.

Quinn Fabray.

She looks stunning (as always) in a green gown that molds her figure in the most complimentary way. A tingle of envy runs down Rachel's spine as she silently compares their red carpet looks. As if sensing the inspection, Quinn glances up, easily finding Rachel's eyes. The polite smile that she'd affected for the camera in front of her grows more genuine as she nods a silent acknowledgment to Rachel before returning her complete attention back to her interview. Rachel huffs in mild annoyance—she can't even have this one award ceremony to herself.

But the thought disappears as quickly as it comes. The last year has changed so much between them. Quinn had been the last person that Rachel had ever expected to show up out of the blue to see her, but there she'd been—as gorgeous as ever—fresh off winning an Academy Award and claiming to be searching for a change of direction.

"I'm just so tired of playing the Hollywood game," Quinn said as they sat in a little Italian restaurant not far from the Westside Theatre. She was running her finger in a slow circle around the rim of her wine glass while Rachel was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that she was sitting across from _Quinn Fabray_, sharing a meal and a conversation like they'd been friends for years.

She was surprised to discover just how in the loop Quinn was about all the major events in Rachel's life. She wondered how it was possible that Quinn knew more about Rachel than Rachel did about Quinn when Quinn was the one whose life was under a media microscope and broadcast on every major network. Quinn shrugged and claimed to have heard it from a friend who heard it from a friend before reminding Rachel that she shouldn't believe everything she sees in the tabloids.

"I'm a product, completely manufactured and mostly synthetic," she muttered.

"Well, your awards are certainly real," Rachel attempted to reassure her.

The corner of Quinn's mouth quirked up. "You're awfully obsessed with those."

Rachel blushed, tapping her fingernails against the base of her own glass. "I wouldn't say _obsessed_," she grumbled. "But they_ are_ symbols of excellence in your field, and you wouldn't have them if you didn't have real talent. I can hardly claim to know what it's like to have your every move scrutinized by millions, but Quinn...you are so much more than your image."

The intensity of Quinn's gaze held her captured, and Rachel was reminded of the many times in her youth when she'd been left unable to even guess at what might lay hidden behind those hazel eyes. The poor Kelly Clarkson reference was quickly forgotten when Quinn smiled and said, "I've really missed you, Rachel."

_That_ had shocked her more than Quinn's appearance at the theater, and Rachel spent the rest of the evening struggling to catch up to a conversation in which Quinn proceeded to confess her intention of taking up permanent residence in New York. And Quinn had done exactly that. There were trips back to Los Angeles, of course, but Quinn made it known that she intended to exercise her acting chops in the theater, and soon enough, she signed on to star in a revival of _The Little Dog Laughed._ A somewhat ironic choice, as Rachel soon learned.

The show is nominated for a Tony, and so is Quinn. At least they're nominated in different categories. Rachel hates to think of the blow their friendship could suffer if they're ever put into direct competition, because Quinn has somehow managed to become one of the most important people in her life. They started slowly, with a series of coffees and lunches and shopping excursions for the apartment that Quinn had secured in New York, but it didn't take long for them to fall into the kind of friendship that Rachel had secretly wished for since she was fourteen. No, it's better than what she'd once wished, because now she knows the real Quinn—all of the insecurities and disappointments that she'd battled as a teenager and the amazing (and talented and supportive) woman that she's become.

Rachel smiles as she thinks of the twists and turns that her life has taken and is still taking. She drags her attention away from Quinn, who is charming everyone around her, and moves on to her next interview; this one with a popular Broadway-based website. Frankly, it's a relief to talk to someone who only spares a cursory glance at her dress before asking a series of thoughtful questions about her show and the role for which she's nominated.

She gives the same attention and respect to every journalist and photographer who shows an interest in her. One or two of them attempt to ask her about her friendship with Quinn—it was inevitable that it would garner some interest once they'd been spotted together around the city from time to time—but Rachel politely sidesteps any in depth discussions, only expressing how happy she is for Quinn to have been nominated. It goes without saying that she's even happier for her own nomination.

Eventually, she finds her way inside the theater, waving excitedly at her fellow cast members as she slides into her seat. She tries not to read too much into the fact that she's sitting on the end of the row. She'll be performing a song from the show later on with several of her costars, and Rachel is secretly relieved that it's scheduled before her category will be announced. She'll probably be wound tighter than a drum with nervous energy while she's on stage, but at least she won't have to deal with the extreme low of a loss or the extreme high of a win. Regardless, she somehow doubts that tonight will come anywhere close to being her best performance.

She's so distracted looking around at all the familiar (and unfamiliar) faces in the audience that she barely notices the empty seat beside her, so she's a bit startled when she hears a firm but polite, "Pardon me, Ms. Berry."

Her eyes dart up to the usher standing over her and then drift to the person beside him. "I have the seat next to you," Quinn says with a smile, and Rachel finds herself standing reflexively without a second thought. She steps out into the aisle, and Quinn shimmies past her, somehow managing to brush an arm, leg, and hip against her. Rachel can feel the heat of Quinn's skin through her dress and smell the sweet scent of her perfume, and her breath hitches—something that's been happening with increasing frequency where Quinn is concerned.

She smooths her palms over the skirt of her dress and sinks back into her seat. "Aren't you supposed to be sitting with your cast?" she asks.

One delicate ivory shoulder lifts and falls. "I might have pulled a few strings," Quinn confesses with a sly grin. "Consider me your plus one."

There's no conceivable reason why Rachel's heart should be skipping any beats, but it doesn't seem to get the memo. "Quinn," she murmurs, half-questioning and half-chastising.

"Rachel," Quinn echoes with that damnable eyebrow arched in challenge. She leans closer, eyes flashing with determination. "Do you really think for one minute that I'd let anyone else be the first to congratulate you when you win your first Tony?"

Rachel does her best to tramp down the pleasure that Quinn's words evoke. She bites back her smile and digs deep for cautious humbleness. "_If _I win."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "_When_," she repeats decisively, settling back in her seat and daintily arranging her dress so that it lays perfectly across her legs and lap. Rachel tries not to stare at the simple action, lifting her gaze when Quinn says, "Who could possibly beat out _the _Rachel Berry, toast of Broadway? You're going to win."

Rachel chuckles, shaking her head. "In moments like this, I'm strangely reminded of your past as a cheerleader."

"Just be glad that I decided not to wear my Team Rachel t-shirt."

Rachel eyes Quinn. There isn't a hint of sarcasm or humor in the statement—Quinn seems completely serious. No wonder she's won so many acting awards. "What color is it?" Rachel asks, playing along with equal gravity.

"Pink," Quinn easily answers with the barest hint of a smile beginning to dance around the corners of her mouth.

Rachel hums thoughtfully, giving a short nod. "It would have looked perfect with your dress."

The smile she's been battling finally overtakes Quinn's face, and she turns to Rachel with sparkling eyes. "You would think pink and green go well together."

"Don't they?" Rachel asks seriously.

"I can't wait until you make your first best-dressed list. I'm so going to sell your high school pictures to the tabloids."

Rachel gasps dramatically and presses a hand over her chest. "You wouldn't dare, Quinn Fabray. Or I'll have to share the photos of your pink-haired punk phase."

Quinn's smile freezes before she scoffs, waving her hand dismissively. "You don't have any pictures of that," she declares with confidence.

Rachel smiles slowly, leaning closer. "You were smoking under the bleachers after school, complete with combat boots and a beanie. Granted, it isn't exactly a close-up, but there's no mistaking that striking profile."

Quinn stares at Rachel with an odd expression, dragging her teeth across her lower lip and beginning to nibble. Rachel recognizes the habit for what it is—a sign of nervous contemplation. "You really kept a picture of me from back then?" she finally asks in a breathy voice.

Rachel almost confesses that she'd kept dozens, but then thinks better of it. She doesn't want to seem like some kind of stalker, even if she did _occasionally_ snap pictures of her friends when they weren't really paying attention, recording the moments for her own remembrance—and okay, possibly for a chapter or two of her future autobiography. She's not really certain how she ended up with more shots of Quinn than anyone else, with the exception of Finn.

"Why wouldn't I?" she counters innocently. Quinn smiles a little bashfully and looks away, but Rachel swears that she sees a blush creep up her neck and across her cheeks.

She files the reaction away for future consideration. That's also been happening with increasing frequency. She's not sure what to make of it—if it means what she thinks it might mean, or if her own muddled emotions are clouding her perception. Maybe she's just afraid to consider the possibility, because she knows it _is_ possible. Quinn's most closely guarded secret had admittedly come as a surprise to Rachel, but she'd quickly accepted it and assimilated it into the hundreds of other interesting facets that make up Quinn Fabray. Their relationship right now is perfect in its imperfection—the familiar push and pull from high school, but softened and matured with age. They're equals and opposites with overlapping circles, and Rachel is hesitant to do anything that might change the status quo. She doesn't have the best track record, after all.

They're half an hour into the ceremony when Rachel has to get ready to perform. Quinn smiles and tells her to, "Break a leg."

Rachel grimaces. "While I appreciate your use of the traditional theater idiom wishing me good luck, I keep envisioning myself tripping on the way to the stage and _actually_ breaking a leg."

Quinn laughs. "You've performed this number eight times a week for nearly a year now. I don't think you have to worry." Rachel isn't entirely convinced. Just as she's about to stand, Quinn reaches over and takes her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You'll be wonderful," she says, and Rachel feels instantly calmed.

Despite the legions of butterflies—or maybe hummingbirds—attacking her stomach, Rachel neither trips and breaks any legs nor misses any notes. The performance is hardly perfect, but it will do. By the time she changes back into her dress and returns to her seat, it's time for Quinn's category to be announced.

She knows that she can occasionally be self-involved and miss important behavioral cues in others, but there is no mistaking the tension running through Quinn. Rachel finds herself silently reaching for Quinn's hand where it's fisted in her lap, despite the camera moving ever closer. The moment her fingertips make that first tentative contact, Quinn's hand uncurls, and she laces their fingers together. Rachel smiles and listens to the rise of the applause when Quinn's name is announced as a nominee. She just knows that Quinn is going to win.

Except she doesn't.

Quinn's fingers tighten around Rachel's for a few seconds before they grow limp. Rachel looks over at her in concern, taking in the calm expression and the smile that she knows for a fact is completely fake. As Lily Rabe makes her way up to the stage to collect her Tony, Rachel leans into Quinn's side, whispering, "You should have won."

Quinn huffs out a humorless laugh and shrugs. "It's an honor just to be nominated," she recites with a wry grin.

Rachel knows she's disappointed, but it doesn't negate the truth in her words. Quinn wanted to prove her worth as an actress, removed from the editing and camera angles and multiple takes of Hollywood, and she's more than done that. "Next time," she reassures Quinn, feeling another squeeze to her hand as Quinn sighs and politely listens to Lily recite her speech.

She never lets go of Rachel's hand.

Quinn's loss drains away a bit of Rachel's joy. She's been jealous of Quinn's success in the past, but she really deserved that Tony. Rachel is nearly as disappointed as if it was her own award, and she realizes that her disappointment might soon be doubled. If Quinn couldn't add to her already impressive collection of statuettes—and Rachel has seen them and touched them, and they are so very impressive—then how can she hope to win in her own category?

Soon enough, it's time for her to find out. Megan Hilty and Sutton Foster announce the nominees for Best Performance by a Leading Actress in a Musical, and Rachel stops breathing. She's vaguely aware of Quinn shifting next to her and cupping another hand over their already joined ones. Rachel is really trying to focus on Megan. She can almost see her lips moving, but the words sound so far away and muffled by the faint buzz in Rachel's ears. She wonders if she's going to pass out.

"Breathe, Rachel," she hears quite clearly against her ear, and—oh, yeah. That might be a good idea. She opens her mouth and gulps in a mouthful of oxygen, concentrating on breathing and smiling. It's important to keep smiling, after all. Sadly, it doesn't really make the announcement any clearer to her still buzzing ears. It almost sounds like...

But it couldn't be.

"Rachel," Quinn gasps next to her, gripping her hands tightly and nearly vibrating in her seat. "Rachel, you won!"

The breath leaves her lungs in a whoosh before she struggles to reclaim it. "Oh my God," she rasps. "Did...did she say my name?" she asks stupidly.

Quinn's smile encompasses her entire face, and she nods excitedly. "Congratulations, Rachel," she says, finally letting go of her hands only to wrap her arms around Rachel in an awkward sideways hug across the seat that somehow feels better than any embrace that she's ever experienced. Rachel's hands instinctively move around Quinn and she inhales deeply. Her heart is soaring, but she feels grounded. Quinn's lips inconspicuously brush her cheek before moving against her ear as she whispers, "I'm so proud of you," and Rachel shivers.

"I...I don't know what to do," she murmurs, caught in Quinn's eyes even after Quinn finally releases her.

"Go get your award," Quinn urges with soft smile and an even softer expression. Rachel doesn't want to look away. She watches Quinn's eyes glisten suspiciously before her lips curve even more, and she feels a warm palm curl over her knee and give a gentle push. "Go," Quinn repeats, "before they decide to give it to someone else."

That gets Rachel moving, and she practically tumbles out of her seat, silently praying that she doesn't trip over her dress on the way to the stage. She sincerely doubts that she could pull that off even half as gracefully as Jennifer Lawrence once had. Her heart is racing in her chest and her mind begins to shift into overdrive, replaying the highlights of the last year in rapid motion before jumping back five years. Ten. Fifteen.

She sighs in relief when she's safely standing on the stage, and she receives her congratulatory hugs from Megan and Sutton—neither come close to feeling as good as Quinn's had. When she finally receives her Tony, she cradles it carefully in both hands. It's heavier than it looks, and she has to resist the childish urge to give the medallion a spin. She's already picturing it on her shelf at home. She has the perfect place for it.

She only notices how badly her hands are trembling when she rests the Tony against the podium. She looks up to see hundreds of faces staring back at her, and that speech that she's had prepared since she was three goes flying right out of her head.

"I...I used to practice giving this speech in my mirror when I was a little girl, but suddenly I can't remember a single word of it," she confesses sheepishly. There's a rumble of laughter through the theater, and Rachel allows her own watery laugh to escape before she shakes her head ruefully. She brushes at her tears as her eyes dart from face to face in the audience, stopping only when they somehow find Quinn, who has moved into Rachel's abandoned seat for a better view. The chaos inside of Rachel settles, and she pauses to catch her breath and gather her thoughts.

"I suppose that I'm something of a latecomer to musical theater," she admits, "even though it's been in my blood since I was a baby. I can't remember a day when there wasn't music of some kind filling our home, and I knew…I just _knew_...that I'd come to New York someday and perform on a Broadway stage the way I'd always dreamed." She pauses and takes a breath, moistening her lips. "I took a little detour to get here," she says, thinking of Finn. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it used to, and she truly hopes that he's as happy as she is now that they've finally stopped disappointing one another. "But it's only made me all the more grateful to finally do what I love most. And I'm so honored just to be able to share this wonderful profession with all of you."

There is a rumble of applause at this, and Rachel smiles. "I want to thank my dads for instilling such a deep love of music and musical theater in me from a very early age and for always believing that I would make it, despite the winding path that I followed. And of course, Justin McIlnay, for creating such an amazing show and giving me the chance to be part of it. And Ben Stockton for his direction and choreography. Thank you Henry and Paul and all of the cast and crew of _Reunion_. You're the reason I'm up here," and there is more applause at this.

She wages an internal war with herself over what to say next. Once upon a time, she'd imagined including her high school glee club (and William Schuester) in her _thank yous_, but half of the time it was to rub their noses in her theoretical success and the other half was an honest appreciation of the friendship that she'd naively believed they would share forever. Neither one of those options feels right anymore. Before Quinn had come back into her life, Kurt was the only person that she'd really stayed in touch with, and even their relationship is somewhat strained now that she's divorced Finn. And poor Finn—thanking him doesn't seem right either when he's no longer a part of the big picture that she'd tried so hard to paint him into with such broad, childish strokes. But something else suddenly does feel right.

"Finally, I...I want to thank Quinn," she says, not bothering with her surname as she purposely looks in Quinn's direction, but she's just a little too far away and the lights are a little too bright to see her expression clearly. "You reminded me that the past doesn't have to define who we are and that the future is whatever we make of it. And I'll be forever grateful for the chance to change the ending of our story."

It's a little more complicated than that, of course, but how can she explain that her envy of Quinn's success is what kept the spark of her dream alive through the dark days of her marriage? Or that Quinn thanking _her_ publicly is what ultimately made Rachel's name stand out amongst the masses when she'd arrived in New York? She knows those aren't the best reasons to be grateful to Quinn, but they're undeniably present inside of her. But then, so is the last year's worth of laughter and shared dreams and secret fears—and other things that they'd both shied away from voicing.

She picks up her Tony again, holding it close to her chest as she says, "I think we're both finally getting it exactly right." With one final, "Thank you, everyone," Rachel listens to the applause swell along with the music as she's escorted off the stage, where a reporter from CBS is waiting for her to capture a few sound-bytes directly after her win. She's more than happy to provide them.

The award for Best Musical is up after the next commercial break, and she's really hoping her show will win. Everyone deserves to feel this same euphoria of being recognized by your peers. She decides to linger backstage until the winner is announced rather than return to her seat, just in case _Reunion_ does end up taking home the Tony. She'll find Quinn later. There's more that she wants to say—things that shouldn't be shared on national television.

She's smiling and accepting congratulations from the small group of actors, presenters and crew who are coming and going around her when Quinn once again surprises her by appearing unexpectedly, hot on the heels of a frazzled stagehand. When Quinn sees her, she abandons the poor boy, and he practically runs away and back to his duties. Rachel attempts to smother her smile. She knows how unrelenting Quinn Fabray can be when she wants something. So many little moments from the past year suddenly come sharply into focus.

Rachel holds up her Tony proudly as Quinn glides to a stop in front of her. "I won," she says, completely unnecessarily. She just likes saying it.

"You thanked me," Quinn breathes out reverently.

"Yeah."

"You didn't have to."

"It just felt right," she admits, emboldened by her win and the emotions that she can see so clearly in Quinn's eyes. "A lot of things about you have been feeling right lately."

Quinn draws in a quick little breath, and the muscles of her throat jump. "Yeah?" she whispers, taking a step forward and hesitantly reaching out to cup her palm over Rachel's hand where it rests against the base of the award—as if she simply has to initiate some kind of physical contact. She's so close that Rachel can see the flecks of green and gold warring for dominance in her eyes.

"Are you going to make me say it?" Rachel asks softly.

Those lips curve slightly before they part. "I think I am."

Rachel runs the tip of her tongue across her lower lip, and she watches Quinn's gaze helplessly follow the motion. "You're my best friend, Quinn," she says, and Quinn instantly deflates, dropping her hand away. Rachel makes sure she has a good grip on her Tony before she lets go of the base and captures Quinn's retreating hand. "But you're a lot more than that," she says. Quinn's beautiful eyes fall closed, hiding her thoughts away, and Rachel begins to grow a little nervous. "Or I…I think you could be. To me. If...if you want."

Quinn opens her eyes, and Rachel nearly loses her breath at the love shining back at her. "I want," Quinn vows, entwining their fingers together more tightly and tugging Rachel closer. "I _so_ want."

She's dipping her head before Rachel can think to stop her, and then she can't think of anything but how right Quinn's lips feel against her own. Quinn's tongue traces the contours of her mouth before slipping inside, and that feels even better. Rachel wonders why they haven't been doing this all along. Quinn really is a wonderful kisser. Studying her technique opposite all of her costars really hadn't prepared Rachel for the real thing—and yes, okay, she'd actually paid attention to Quinn's screen kisses long before she'd ever entertained the notion of _actually _kissing Quinn herself. (That one time in high school hardly counts.) That probably should have been sign of—_something_.

Rachel silently curses her Tony because it's trapped uncomfortably between their bodies, preventing her from getting as close to Quinn as she wants to be. She considers putting it down on the floor, but she'd have to stop kissing Quinn to do that, and she's unwilling to do that just yet. She wishes there was some kind of table nearby so that they could just shuffle over without parting, and she could put down the statuette and wrap herself around Quinn Fabray completely. And then maybe they could lie across the table and…

Well, maybe not. This is hardly the appropriate place for something like _that_. The random thought skitters through Rachel's head, and it's the one thing that manages to break through her Quinn-induced haze and forces her to pry her mouth away from Quinn's really (really) talented one. The drunken smile on Quinn's face would be adorable under any other circumstances, but Rachel's stomach twists as she hastily frees herself from Quinn's embrace. Or tries to, but Quinn won't let her go—her smile fading away into a troubled frown.

"Wh-what's wrong?" she asks brokenly.

"Quinn, we're in public," Rachel laments, glancing around anxiously at the several sets of eyes that are staring at them, including that damned reporter from CBS and another from _Playbill _magazine. Her heart sinks at the implication—Quinn is still very firmly in the closet—and she feels tears spring to her eyes when she sees the look of aggravation that mars Quinn's beautiful features.

"_That's_ why you stopped?" Quinn asks incredulously.

"A dozen people just saw you kiss me," Rachel answers shakily.

Quinn looks around, taking note of their audience for the first time, before returning her gaze to Rachel. "And they're about to see me do it again." She starts to lean back in, but Rachel jerks away, avoiding the contact.

"Quinn," she whispers harshly. "Your career."

"Comes second to my happiness," Quinn tells her simply. The irritation melts away from her face, and a soft smile blooms on her lips. She lifts a hand to gently brush back a wayward lock of Rachel's hair before stroking those elegant fingers along the line of her jaw. "I don't want to hide how I feel about you."

With those words, Rachel understands how completely she's been caught by Lucy Quinn Fabray. She lets all of her doubts and worries drift away on the breeze as she gazes at Quinn. "And how _do_ you feel about me?" she prompts.

Quinn flashes a playful grin. "Are you going to make me say it?"

"I think I am," Rachel challenges with a smile of her own.

Quinn shuffles closer. "You're better with words than I am," she says, sliding her fingers down Rachel's neck and across her shoulder as she dips her head. "I'd much rather show you how I feel."

Her lips are barely a breath away from Rachel's when Rachel jerks away again with a flustered, "Wait!" Quinn groans in disappointment, and Rachel smiles apologetically before she bends down as gracefully as she can in her dress and very carefully sets her Tony at her feet. When she stands up again, she slides her arms around Quinn until their bodies are completely flush. "There," she breathes out in relief. "Show me now."

And Quinn does.

The words will come later, and all the whispers of what might have been grow silent in the celebration of a new beginning.

Together.


End file.
